


Another Dreamless Night

by neglectedtuesday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bartender Chris Argent, Country & Western, Daddy Kink, Lace Panties, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Singer Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-11-02 06:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20654588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neglectedtuesday/pseuds/neglectedtuesday
Summary: “We can both do something bold if you want,” Stiles says, pushing himself off the wall and sauntering over to Chris. Stiles is taller than Chris initially thought, not that it matters. He has gold glitter under his eyes that has smeared down his cheeks.“I really shouldn’t do this. I have a kid about your age.”“Oh,” Stiles replies, licking his bottom lip so that it’s shiny and wet. “So you’re a Daddy.”Chris is not going to rise to this kid’s bait. He’s just not.





	Another Dreamless Night

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the music of Orville Peck - I would recommend listening to his album Pony, it's amazing. He's a queer Country singer and the title of this fic is taken from his song 'Dead of Night'.
> 
> I, neglectedtuesday, have not given my permission for my work to be posted on any third-party website or app such as Fanfic Pocket Archive Library or any of the Woodsign Fanfic Apps.

Chris, freshly divorced but not freshly shaved, takes the bartending job and the shitty apartment above said bar because at this point in his life he thinks he’s allowed to be messy. Allison has started her freshman year of college, so it’s not like he needs somewhere nice for her to visit on weekends, and she’s already decided to spend Christmas with her mom’s family. 

The pay is average, but the bar is nice. It’s clean enough to bring in all sorts of customers but dirty enough to feel authentic. The decor is a tad on the dead animal side, although just skulls as opposed to full blown taxidermy. A long bar with low overhanging lights, the kind that have a twisted bulbs encased in tinted glass. A stage along the back wall where open mic-ers and local bands can have their fifteen minutes of fame. 

Chris puts in his shifts, sleeps on the surprisingly comfortable bed upstairs and does little in between. He’s always been owned and controlled by someone else; his family, his father’s company, his wife, although he liked the last more than the others. It’s been a while since he considered himself his own man and now that effectively he is, he’s not sure what to do with himself. 

He’ll figure it out eventually. Probably.

\----

Finstock calls Chris into the office, with an unhinged look in his eye that suggests he’s going to demand something unreasonable. The last time Chris saw that look, he had to talk Finstock out of buying a rodeo bull, but realistically that conversation has been tabled for now rather than officially dealt with. 

Finstock is not a bad boss per say. He treats his workers right, has no patience for those who try to abuse his staff. But he’s, for lack of a better phrase, completely and utterly mad. He has a feral energy to him, like a raccoon caught in the beam of a flashlight whilst it’s been foraging in trash. He drinks coffee that tastes like engine oil, wears a whistle around his neck like a sports coach and his hair looks like he permanently has his finger stuck in an electric socket. 

“Chris,” Finstock says, leaning back in his office chair. “You like country music?”

Chris raises an eyebrow. “Does my opinion have any bearing on what you’re about to tell me?”

“Not really no.”

Chris resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

“I need you to prep the bar for a secret show tonight. Some new country music kid, supposedly hot shit and a guaranteed money maker.” 

“And how long do I have to prep?”

“Six hours, give or take.”

“Right and you couldn’t have given me a heads up at any point yesterday.”

“I didn’t know it was gonna happen yesterday. Also wouldn’t be much of a secret show if people knew months in advance, now would it.”

Chris slowly counts to ten in his head instead of thinking of the numerous ways he could kill Finstock with the lone pineapple-shaped paper clip that resting at the front of the desk.

\----

The band isn’t what Chris was expecting. He figured it would be someone of the fake-country calibre, rich white men who’ve never worked the land a day in their life and pander to the masses by singing about their tractors. The bassist is a Mexican boy with a crooked jaw, who keeps making heart eyes at the drummer, an Asian girl who twirls her drumsticks like batons while the roadies set up her kit. Finstock is yammering away at the band manager, a black man who is managing to maintain a serene expression despite his proximity to Finstock.

Chris doesn’t spot the singer until the boy is already at the bar, doe eyes twinkling and grin mischievous. He’s wearing a tangerine orange t-shirt with cowboy boots to match, olive green checked trousers and is looking at Chris like he’s been wandering the desert for weeks and Chris is the tall glass of water he’s been desperate for. 

“Hello,” the singer says, “is it too early to ask for a beer?”

Chris shrugs. “Not unless you’re too young to have one.”

The singer smirks. “Oh I’m definitely legal.”

Chris snorts, reaching below the counter for a glass. 

“I’m Stiles,” the singer says, hopping up on one of the bar stools. He leans on his elbows as Chris pours the beer from the local brew they have on tap. 

“That the band name or yours?”

“Mine, well, a nickname. Polish parents, real name is a mouthful that definitely wouldn’t sell records.” 

Chris slides the beer across the counter. Stiles gives him a quiet thanks, lifting the glass and taking a long drink. He sighs when he’s finished.

“I needed that. The AC on our tour bus is busted and we ran out of all liquids two hours ago. Can’t serenade the masses with a dry throat.”

“I’m sure beer is what all the professionals use to warm up their vocal chords.”

“You saying I’m unprofessional.” 

“I’ve only known you for five minutes, I couldn’t possibly comment on your professionalism.”

Stiles grins, the shadows from the overhanging light giving his face a strange fox-like quality. 

“Well, you see… I don’t recall your name.”

“I don’t recall giving it to you.”

“A real oversight on your part, care to oblige me?” 

“Chris.”

“Chris,” Stiles repeats, “Good name. Solid name. An easy name to…”

“Stiles,” the Mexican boy yells, cupping one hand around his mouth and beckoning with the other. “We need to do a sound check.”

Stiles sighs. “Duty calls. You sticking around for the show?”

“I am scheduled to work, yes.”

Stiles leans across the bar, close enough to whisper in Chris’ ear. “Trust me it’ll be worth your time.”

Stiles winks, clambering off the stool in such a way that’s almost graceful in its awkwardness. Chris grabs the empty glass, focusing on washing it up instead of the long lines of Stiles body or the band of skin that is revealed with Stiles leans down to pick up his cherry red guitar. 

\----

“ [ _ Left my mind in the Salt Lake City, met a lot of men who would call me pretty _ ](https://genius.com/Orville-peck-winds-change-lyrics) ,” Stiles croons in the microphone, voice richer than caramel and smooth as rye. He’s looking directly across the room at Chris. The bar is absolutely packed, turns out the band is pretty popular, and there’s no way that Chris can be sure that Stiles is looking at him but he feels it. He knows it. Chris watches Stiles pluck the strings of his guitar, fingers moving fast and precise. He can’t help but be mesmerised, and it’s almost as if Stiles knows this, as if Stiles is showing off specifically for Chris. 

Stiles gaze is intense, golden whiskey eyes glittering under the stage lights. He’s changed out of the previous getup; now he’s wearing a red cowboy shirt, the thread in the seams, a glimmering silver. His black jeans are tight, the crimson leather chaps only serving to frame a certain part of Stiles’ anatomy. Black cowboy boots, a silver bolo tie and scarlet cowboy hat serve to complete the outfit and it should be ridiculous. Should be cheesy and overdone but Stiles looks, for lack of a better descriptor, fucking hot. 

Chris shouldn’t even entertain this concept. Doesn’t matter that Stiles is consenting adult and clearly interested. Chris is too old for this shit. He should know better.

The song comes to an end. Stiles drops down to retrieve a water bottle from near his ankle. Chris looks at the line of his throat as Stiles chugs the last of the liquid. 

“Well folks,” Stiles says, “We’ve had a fucking brilliant time tonight. This will be our last song of the evening.”

The crowd makes the appropriate disappointed noises.

“I know, I know, but I’ve run out of songs to play. We’ve only got one album out guys. Which you can totally buy tonight by the way, we also got some new t-shirts as well. Kira designed those, they’re amazing. Y’all have been awesome, buy our merch, this is our last song.”

Stiles plays the opening guitar riff, a slow plucking of individual notes with soft tap of the high hat accompanying him. “ [ _ The sun goes down, another dreamless night. _ ](https://genius.com/Orville-peck-dead-of-night-lyrics) ”

“Don’t even go there,” Chris mutters to himself, turning away from the stage to collect empty glasses.

\---

Stiles is waiting for Chris out back when Chris goes to dump tonight’s garbage. He’s leaning up against the brick wall, shirt unbuttoned, chaps missing, hair plastered to his forehead. He grins when he sees Chris, looking hedonistic in his dishlevery. 

“Howdy,” Stiles says. His voice is a little raspy from singing. 

“Howdy,” Chris replies, opening up the dumpster and slinging the garbage bag inside. He can feel Stiles watching the way the muscles in his arm move as he swings the bag. 

“Turns out more than the AC is broken,” Stiles says, casually as if he isn’t building up to something. “So it looks like I’m in town for longer than anticipated.”

Chris makes a soft humming noise, to indicate he’s listening. 

“Scott and Kira already caught a ride to the local motel, but I figured I’d rather do something bold.”

“I’m something bold?” 

Chris could kick himself, why is he engaging in this? 

“We can both do something bold if you want,” Stiles says, pushing himself off the wall and sauntering over to Chris. Stiles is taller than Chris initially thought, not that it matters. He has gold glitter under his eyes that has smeared down his cheeks. 

“I really shouldn’t do this. I have a kid about your age.”

“Oh,” Stiles replies, licking his bottom lip so that it’s shiny and wet. “So you’re a Daddy.”

Chris is not going to rise to this kid’s bait. He’s just not. 

\----

Chris pushes Stiles up against the door of his apartment, boxing the boy in. He nuzzles at Stiles neck, pleased when Stiles tips his head back to give Chris better access. Chris bites because he can, taking note of how Stiles shudders beneath him, the tiny gasp escaping from Stiles’ soft, glossy lips. 

Their hips rock together, a desperate friction that has them both aching. Chris runs a hand through Stiles’ hair, gripping tight to anchor the boy in place, while the other hand reaches down to undo the zipper on Stiles’ jeans. It’s a little difficult, Chris can’t see what’s he’s doing and he’s preoccupied with Stiles’ mouth but eventually he gets a hand beneath the denim. And feels something… silky. 

Chris pulls back so that he can look down. Stiles’ erection is straining against red silk panties, framed with floral lace. The fabric is dark in a few places, Stiles already dripping just from manhandling. 

“Like what you see Daddy?” Stiles asks, hips grinding forward against Chris’ hand. 

Chris drops to his knees. He brings his mouth to where Stiles is leaking, suckling at the fabric. Stiles whines, shifting his stance a little wider, a hand coming down to cup the back of Chris’ neck. God, Chris wants to take this boy apart, wants to watch his mouth go slack with pleasure, wants to taste and touch. 

“I want you to strip down to just your panties,” Chris says, standing up. He grabs Stiles by the chin, making sure he has the boy’s full attention. “I am going to finger you open until I think you’re ready to take me. Then I’m going to fuck you. At any point that you want to stop, or you’re in pain or uncomfortable, you tell me.”

“Sure thing.” 

Stiles leaves a trail of clothes up to the bed. The red of the panties stands out against his pale skin, the delicate fabric pulled taut over Stiles’ impressive erection. Stiles lies back against the covers, smirking at Chris and beckoning him to come closer. Chris discards his t-shirt, slowly unbuckling his jeans as he stalks towards the bed. Stiles tilts his head up, biting his bottom lip as he takes Chris in. 

“Fuck, I can’t wait to have beard burn all over me,” Stiles says. He spreads his legs, creating a space for Chris. Chris settles himself there, pressing kisses to the soft skin of Stiles’ thighs. Leaves a few marks scattered between the moles, little marks of possession that won’t fade for a while. He takes pleasure in imagining Stiles, lying in the darkness on the tour bus, pressing fingers against the marks, the sweet burst of pain a reminder of what they’re about to do. 

Because Chris is generous, he pulls Stiles’ panties down to free Stiles’ erection. He takes the head into his mouth, just to tease. Stiles wraps a leg around him, Stiles’ foot tracing up Chris’ spine as if he wants to bring Chris closer. Chris pulls off, ignoring Stiles whine, and uses his teeth to pull Stiles’ panties down and off. He flings them over his shoulder, reaching over Stiles for the lube in the bedside cabinet. 

He warms it between his fingers, Stiles watching with hooded eyes. Chris makes sure to be gentle, his finger slipping inside easily. He fingers Stiles slowly, paying attention to the way Stiles gasps and grinds down, the way Stiles’ hands spasm, fingers gripping and releasing the sheets. He adds a second finger, can’t keep the grin off his face as he drinks in Stiles’ responses. 

“You’re doing so good baby, so beautiful, fucking yourself on my fingers.” 

“Fuck!” The word sounds like it was torn from Stiles’ throat, deep and heavy and desperate. Stiles is a goddamn vision, from the smeared glitter on his face to the way his thighs tremble and quiver. Chris wishes he had a camera or a photographic memory, so he could replay this moment over and over again.

“How do you want this? Chris asks, pulling his fingers out, satisfied that Stiles is fully stretched.

Stiles shifts, rolling onto his stomach and pushing his knees apart. He gets his knees and elbows under him, turning his head to gaze at Chris. He flutters his eyelashes a few times, a lazy grin curling the edges of his soft pink mouth. Arousal burns in Chris’ gut. 

He rolls on a condom before pressing himself against Stiles’ back. He slides in, slow and steady. Stiles rocks backwards, frantic in his desire to take Chris in a little deeper. A needy noise falls from Stiles lips. Chris shushes him in response, a soothing, nonsense sound as he pets Stiles’ hips.

“It’s alright baby, you’ll get what you need soon.”

“Patience has never been my strong suit,” Stiles replies, the end of the sentence lost to a soft groan. 

Stiles buries his face in the sheets as Chris bottoms out. Chris blankets the boy with his body, nudging his nose against Stiles’ ear. 

“You feel so good baby,” Chris murmurs, nipping at Stiles’ earlobe. “You’ve been such a good boy for Daddy. Can I move?”

Stiles nods, perhaps not trusting himself to speak. 

The first thrust is gentle, Chris wants to see what he’s working with, see what Stiles likes. After that, it’s easy to find a rhythm. Stiles lets his knees slip wider, lets Chris push a little deeper. The air is loud with the sound of skin on skin, with the sound of Stiles pleasure. Stiles moans and gasps and pants, praising Chris whilst demanding more.

“Daddy please, right there, fuck, feels so good.”

Chris reaches down, fingers curling around Stiles’ cock, timing his thrusts with the slick slide of his hand. They orgasm within seconds of each other. Chris’ hits him solidly in the abdomen, he grinds raggedly into Stiles, as Stiles spurts over Chris’ hand. 

After Chris pulls out and gets rid of the condom, they become a sweaty pile of limbs, tangled around each other. 

“Gonna take a while for my brain to come back online,” Stiles admits. Chris snorts, absentmindedly playing with the sweaty strands of Stiles’ hair. He flicks the bedside lamp off with his other hand, darkness settling around them like a thick blanket. 

“You should come on the road with us,” Stiles mumbles, settling his head against Chris’ chest. “Always in need of strong hot roadies. You can haul around sound equipment, see the wonders of the American countryside and I’ll blow you at public rest stops.”

“Go to sleep Stiles.”

Chris drifts off, lulled to sleep by Stiles breathing and the warm weight of a body against his. 

\----

Stiles is gone by morning. All that remains are the panties, draped elegantly over the bedside table along with a phone number scrawled on the back on an old receipt. Chris smiles, picking up the receipt and thinking to himself that maybe life on the road wouldn’t be too bad. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr - neglectedtuesday


End file.
